Khal Lei
by ApolloNico24601
Summary: When Daenerys is "merciful" to her brother, how will he survive in Essos with no title, no army, no allies, and no sweet sister. Can he ever win the Iron Throne back from the Baratheons alone? Will he even survive the empty wastes that lie between Vaes Dothrak and Pentos? (Sometimes merges books and TV, please read and review *even though I suck at summaries* :D)
1. Chapter 1

"You are no brother of mine."

Daenerys' words sliced through me like a blade of valyrian steel. So sharp, it was almost painless, but wounding all the same. She was my little sister, and I was the dragon. How dare she command me, How _dare_ she. I had cared for her all of her life. Without me she would be _nothing_!

I remembered stumbling into the primitive mud-hut in Vaes Dothrak, watching my sister sat with that stinking horse-lord Drogo. He'd promised me a crown, a kingdom, an army to win me back the Iron Throne. But instead here he sat, dining on my sister's cunt while I was treated like dirt. Could they not see that _I _was the blood of the dragon? Daenerys was nothing more than a horse-lord's whore, whereas I, on the other hand, was a king. The rightful King of Westeros - and when I reclaimed my throne, I would remember who helped me, and who delayed my conquest. However unfortunately for Drogo, he was standing in my way.

Admittedly, some of the wine I'd drunk may have gone to my head, but when I saw Daenery's laughing and smiling amongst her people – no, _my _people – anger began to rise from deep within my bones; fire that burned away at the edges of my mind and made my vision go hazy. Or was it the drink?

A dead animal roasted over a fire in the centre of the manse of woven grass. This was a pathetic excuse for a holy city – all of the buildings were mismatched; pyramids, towers, mud huts, stone pavilions, halls made of logs, all built on the backs of slaves. The streets were paved with grass and mud, and cracked where the sun's rays had drained the moisture from the earth and driven its fiery swords into the dirt. Even the light wind could provide no solace from the blistering heat, if anything it seemed to direct it towards the Khalasar.

However as night fell, the air became thick and heavy, clinging to me like a second skin and dragging my hair into tangled, wavy strands. The atmosphere inside the hall was no different, but was made worse by the smell of scented oils burning and grease that dripped off the carcass.

Topless women danced provocatively in circles around the fire, looking up at the _kos_ and bloodriders with smouldering eyes and half smirks on their faces. None of them even appeared to acknowledge my presence.

_One day, when I am king, I shall gouge out their dark eyes for disrespecting the dragon._

"Daenerys?" I called, and the idle Dothraki chatter began to die down, but the half-naked dancers continued to sway to and fro to the slowly deadening beat. "Where's my sister?"

"Where is she?" I demanded, my tired eyes scanning the sea of faces for any sort of response. "I'm here for the feast!"

I grinned madly, close to hysteria. My sister styled herself as the Khaleesi, but who would want these sluts and beggars as subjects? But I did not care for Daenerys now; I wanted what I paid for. I wanted my crown. I gesticulated wildly, rounding on a cluster of Dothraki sat enjoying the food.

"The _whores'_ feast" I taunted, tying to provoke a reply from someone. "How dare you all presume to eat without me! No one eats before the King!"

Suddenly, Ser Jorah's hand was on my arm. He said something as he tried to usher me out of the hut but I slapped his hand away, horrified that someone would dare try and command me.

"Get your hands off me!" I growled, pointing an accusing finger at him. "_No one_ touches the dragon."

Ser Jorah looked down, avoiding my gaze. I smiled. Good; he's afraid of me - as he should be. Then, behind me I heard Khal Drogo's guttural laughter. I turned, and as though seeing him for the first time, I waved.

"Khal Drogo!" I greeted him, striding towards him and his whore of a wife.

The Khal smiled and tilted his head to one side. Daenerys inhaled sharply, her expression anxious, but that only fuelled my anger. She thought she was so special, but when compared to me she knew she was nothing.

"I'm here for the feast." I repeated, holding my arms out as if to embrace him from afar.

Khal Drogo said something in Dothraki, gesturing towards the door. I raised an eyebrow. Was he mocking me? I turned to Ser Jorah for a translation.

"The Khal says there is a place for you," he rendered, pointing to the door as Drogo had done. "Back there."

Outside sat the outcasts; the blind old men, the young, half-starved boys, and old crones. So they were mocking me. How _dare_ they mock me! I turned back to the Khal and shook my head, gritting my teeth as anger fought to consume me.

"That is no place for a King." I snapped, my eyes stinging in the heat of the room.

Drogo opened his mouth to speak but Daenerys cut him off.

"Viserys, please," she addressed me, her voice pleading. "May we talk?"

"You request an audience with the king?" I sneered, marching towards the high table. "Then speak, sweet sister."

"Alone." she added, her demanding tone setting my nerves on edge.

I was about to answer back when she rested her hand on mine, her violet eyes fearful. Trembling with rage, I nodded slowly. In here, she had the power, but with me – alone - she was nothing. Alone, I would show her what happened to those who woke the dragon, and there would be no Khal to stop me.

Wrenching my hand from my sister's, I turned to address the room of savages again.

"I hope you enjoy the feast!" I shouted, Daenery's struggling to keep up with my long strides as I left the hall.

The air was cooler outside, but the stench of horse shit and unwashed bodies was overwhelming. We had only walked – or in my case, staggered – down a few streets when Daenerys stopped. I whirled around, snatching her wrist and dragging her close to me.

"You would insult me by speaking with me here?" I hissed, but she hardly flinched.

That was odd. She was always scared of me. I was the dragon. Her lack of response drained some of confidence, but my anger was unwavering.

"_Here? _Surely there must be some better place than among these horsefuckers-"

The slap that ensued took me entirely off-guard. I stumbled backwards as my head snapped to the right, throwing me off balance. Clutching my stinging cheek, I stared at Daenerys in horror, my eyes wide.

Her calm demeanour set my blood on fire, my breath ragged as I tried to regain my composure.

"These are my people and I am their queen!" she defended. "And you should treat me as such."

My heart was pounding in my ears, too loud for me to hear her.

"How dare you strike the dragon!" I roared, my voice breaking as my rage turned to acid in my mouth. "I will gut you-"

"You can't." Daenerys cut me off.

I felt as though my tongue had turned to ashes in my mouth as I tried and failed to form a sentence. My face was burning where she'd struck me, but it was the humiliation that drained all the colour from my skin. She couldn't stand up to me. I was her brother! Her King!

"I-I," my jaw opened and closed but no comprehendible words escaped.

Instead, I decided to let steel speak for me. Drawing my sword, I advanced unsteadily towards Daenerys.

"Not so clever now, are you, sweet sister?" I hissed, but once again she didn't flinch. "There's no khal out here to defend you."

Despite my sword waving perilously close to her nose, Daenerys held my gaze, her eyes stone cold.

"If you so much as scratch me with that blade, Viserys," she warned me. "I will see to it that the entire Khalasar knows that you drew your sword in their sacred city. _My _scared city."

"_Your _sacred city. Not mine." I scoffed, letting my blade sink almost to the floor. "I, unlike you, am still a dragon. You, are a horse lord's slut. I don't care for their rules. When _I_ am King, I shall follow my own rules."

"I'm not sure the Dothraki see it that way." Daenerys countered, her eyes glinting with… Was that hatred? "They will kill you if they see you."

"Kill me?" I chuckled lightly, taking a step back. _She calls herself the Khaleesi, but she can't remember the most important rule. _"They cannot shed blood in their 'scared city', can they?"

"They do not need to shed blood to kill you." There was a faraway look in her eyes when she said that.

My laughter died slightly on my lips, and my smile became hesitant.

"I don't need you to rule!" I spat. "All I need is an army-"

"Khal Drogo's army?" she interrupted, taking a step towards me. "What if Khal Drogo was to change his mind? What if _I_ was to change his mind?"

"You wouldn't- You couldn't-"

"What if _he_ was to find out that you drew a blade beneath the Mother of Mountains?" she continued, and a cold sweat began to run down my back.

She was a woman. My sister. She was no queen nor would she ever be. She couldn't threaten me!

"What if he were to find out, that you threatened to _gut me_?" Dany's voice grew louder, her eyes glowing like amethysts in the darkness. "Me and my unborn child!"

"I am your King and you will-"

"No!" she half-shouted half sobbed, and I dropped my blade in shock, worried that someone might hear her. "I am the _Khaleesi_! You are no king here - and if you _dare_ to threaten me again, I shall kill you with your own sword!"

My smile disappeared as if it was never there. The deafening silence between us was broken only my fragmented breathing. It was in that moment, when I realised that she wasn't lying. Her eyes burned like wildfire, her porcelain face twisted into pure hatred. _What had I ever done to deserve this?_

My limbs felt dead and my tongue numb in my mouth. The pounding inside my head would not cease, beating like the drums those women had danced to. _How the tables had turned._

I shook my head, laughing humourlessly as I tried to comprehend what was happening.

"But Dany," I raised a hand to caress her cheek but she slapped it away. "Please-"

"I want you to leave."

Those five words were so calm, yet so heavy. So destructive yet they sounded like a prayer. It was as though the great lure of power, of greatness, of the Iron Throne and my beautiful golden crown had just been shattered and reduced to dust, blowing silently away on the desert air.

I should've killed her and cut the baby from her womb, throwing the half-formed creature at Drogo's feet. I could've taken her with me to the grave. But there I stood, feeling as exposed as I was on my name-day, my tongue made of lead and my heart of stone. I could've drowned her in her own blood, painting it on the walls of the city as my grandfather would've done to those who betrayed him.

"My crown." Is all I managed to choke out, the remnants of a dream escaping my lips.

"You are no king. Neither are you a dragon." With every word Daenerys quenched the fire in my heart, every word dismantling me piece by piece.

"Sister-"

"You are no brother of mine."

Daenerys' words sliced through me like a blade of valyrian steel. So sharp, it was almost painless, but wounding all the same. Taking me apart like a ragdoll, yanking out the stitches and watching as everything that I was fell apart.

"Where shall I go?" I asked, a single, silver tear rolling down my cheek.

"I don't care. Take a horse, and fly far from here." She stated bluntly. "But if you ever show your face here again, I will kill you myself."

It was then that I started laughing, quietly at first, before dissolving into a hysterical cackling. _Commanded? By my own sister? _Nothing was funny, but that is what made it so. I fell to my knees, clutching my sides as my laughter dissolved into hoarse coughing., Nothing would ever be funny again. I may as well have killed her then and patiently waited for my own death. Instead, I chose to die out in the desert wastes. What a stupid – amusingly stupid – notion, that I, Viserys III, could be bested by a pregnant woman. My hands moved as if they had a mind of their own, lunging for the sword, but Daenerys got to it first, and within an instant the blade was at my throat.

"You said the Dothraki-" I started, holding my hands up in surrender.

"You are no Dothraki!" she snapped, taking the blade away from my skin and stepping away. "Goodbye, Viserys."

My legs moving on their own accord, I staggered away from the Khaleesi. Her dead eyes and stone cold face seared into my memory.

_Live, and seek revenge, or die and she will have defeated you._

Kicking up dust around my feet, I broke into a run, wanting to escape this haunted city as soon as possible. The Dothraki horses were left to rest in vast paddocks, built to hold an entire _Khalasar. _Almost blind in the darkness, I grabbed the first horse that I lay eyes on, not caring who it belonged to. The mare was startled when I grasped her mane, probably to roughly. Her ears flattened back against her head and she began to whiny in fright.

I quickly hushed her, whispering quickly in high valyrian; a soothing lullaby from my childhood so many lifetimes ago. I lead her slowly towards the gate, thanking any gods that were listening when the hinges didn't creak. Filling my wineskin with water from the horses trough, I swiftly mounted the mare, but the wine in my blood still pounded against my skull and I was overcome with a wave of nausea. Swallowing bile, I took a gulp of water, before tucking in away in my satchel.

It had been some time since I had ridden bareback, but there were many things that I had forgotten that night, a saddle being the least of my worries. I cursed myself afterwards for the excessive consumption of wine, but I learned too soon that grief is all a man will get from an insult against his own name.

I had never been a stranger to running, by the Seven I'd been running all my life, but this was the first time in which I'd fled alone. As the vast, shadowy desert swamped the horizon, I was overwhelmed by a horrible feeling of isolation. A fear that maybe, just maybe, I could be alone forever.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't remember falling asleep. Nor did I remember drinking half of my water. But when I woke, I regretted both. The sun rose and with it came the morning heat, the red sand slowly starting to drink up its rays.

Painfully, I dragged myself upright, squinting as the desert air kissed me awake. The mare below me was the colour of gold sand, her mane as platinum as my own hair. Her hooves dragged wearily along the sand, compacted by the march of many Khalasars.

Had she been following this path all night? How far had we gone? Was this road leading in the right direction?

With every breath the torrid air caressed the back of my throat and drank all the moisture from my mouth. Waves of heat rolled across the red sand, as though I was looking at the horizon through a window of melting glass. My skin felt like parchment, crisp and frail, as the layers of dried sweat that had clung to my body in the night began to break. The continual pulsing in my head showed no signs of subsiding; it was though something was trying to break free from my skull.

Gently, I tugged on the mare's mane and she halted, her sides heaving as she tried to regain her energy. I dismounted clumsily, stumbling slightly as my feet touched ground. Bow legged and parched, I slumped ungracefully to the floor, not yet fully awake. The mare stayed standing, turning her head to watch me. My limbs were stiff and wooden, my joints cracking loudly as I stretched them.

Reaching into my satchel, my heart dropped when I realised how little supplies I had; a tarnished dagger with a ruby encrusted hilt depicting a three-headed dragon, a wineskin and a half-empty waterskin, a leather pouch of dried dates from the Khaleesi's tent, a bundle of gold dragons – not that they'd be much use to be out here, the remains of a ceremonial whip which now looked more like a rope of rats tails, a map – but no compass, and a maroon sash; Doreah's no doubt. The mare continued to stare expectantly at me, her cornfield coat damp with sweat. How was I meant to feed a horse when I scarcely had food for myself?

I'd waste less supplies if I slit the mare's throat and used her flesh for food, but could I really survive the journey on foot? It was almost a thousand leagues from Vaes Dothrak to Pentos, and it had taken us four months to get there. I rested my hand on the hilt of the dagger. Magister Illyrio had warned me against following the Dothraki, but I'd wanted to see that Khal Drogo kept his promise. Evidently, it hadn't turned out as well as I'd hoped. And here I was, pitiful and alone, with nothing but a horse to guide me. A horse and a useless map.

"If you die, I'll eat you then," I told the mare, and her ears pricked up. "But until then I want you to get me across this desert, even if it kills you."

If I butchered the mare, that would make me no better than the Dothraki beggars. Horse meat was no food for a King.

Her large, brown eyes continued to watch me warily. Trying to save the precious little water I had, I poured no more than a cupful of water onto the dry dirt, and the mare tried to drink as much as she could, licking the ground even when the moisture was gone. She snorted in shock as I lurched to my feet, swaying slightly, the whip curled around my wrist. I slung my satchel around the mare's strong, yet slender neck. She pressed her nose into my hand, pleading for food or more water, but I pushed her away. I had no time for demanding horses.

I brought the whip up to her neck, attempting to use it as a rope, but the sight of the blood-stained horsehair made her eyes roll and she snorted loudly, pulling away from my grasp.

"No!" I hissed as I tried to wrestle with her, tying the bedraggled strands into as a sturdy a knot as I could manage before the mare wrenched free of my grip.

Before she could try and escape, I grabbed ahold of the satchel and prayed that the strap would stay strong. The mare reared slightly, her front legs only about a foot off the ground, before she gave in, stamping her hooves angrily.

"Stubborn bitch." I muttered, before clambering back onto her back, tugging on the rope for emphasis.

The mare sighed heavily, before continuing steadily onwards – as steady as the sun that beat down relentlessly upon our backs. It was such a shame; I had seen what a harsh week in the desert could do to horses, but I wasn't willing to share the mare's fate. Surely others must travel this road – merchants, traders, slave owners – and when I found them, they'd better like the sight of gold.

* * *

Only a week or so had passed when the mare finally gave in.

The days had been scorching, but bearable, the nights –on the other hand - had been frozen, and dragons do not cope well in the cold. My lips were chapped and bleeding, and my tongue had become so dry and swollen that I could barely talk. The fine black cloth I had been wearing what seemed like a lifetime ago was now stiff with dirt and sand, as were my boots, so that now my feet were so ridded with blisters that every step felt as though I was walking on knives.

When blood began to stain the sky and the sun sunk behind the Mother of Mountains far in the distance, the watchful night closed in. On my bed of stones and ice-like rock, I longed for the sun's merciless embrace. My teeth chattered, clamping down on my bloated tongue. In those moments, I thought back to the nights with Doreah in my arms, surrounded by incensed candles and steam from the bathwater.

My own mortality only began to dawn on me when the mare did not rise that morning. Her legs were folded beneath her and her breathing was laboured. The sun slowly began to heat up the sand, but still she wouldn't move. Multiple times I considered ending her suffering, but I chose to wait a while longer. Besides, I wasn't going to get far without a mount.

I can't tell you how long I sat there because I don't know the answer. Long enough so that I begun to feel the skin on the back of my neck blister and crack in the heat. It was at that time when I looked up, and through the hazy desert air, I saw a dust cloud approaching. I rubbed my eyes, wondering if it was just a mirage or not, but it was difficult to tell.

The Dothraki had always found it funny to tell me horror stories about sandstorms – how the sand would tear at your face and get into your lungs before burying you alive. Though I didn't like to show it, the idea of being caught unawares in the middle of the desert terrified me, and their stories had more of an impact than I'd expected. Unfortunately, the stinking horse-fuckers had neglected to tell me how to survive one.

Frozen in shock, I eventually forced my stiff limbs to move, and stumbled towards the dying mare, naturally assuming that her body would offer some protection from the sand. But when I looked up, I saw that there was no storm at all, only a cloud of dust created by the march of camels. Unwary of any danger and driven slightly mad by the heat, I began to call out hoarsely to the steady stream of people approaching. As they got closer, I saw the men at the head of the crowd were half naked and elaborately tattooed, patterns shaved into their hair and loose, cloth of gold breeches hanging off their legs. Around their mouths they wore thin scarfs to ward off the sand, and surprisingly so did the camels.

'Over here!' I cried, jumping up from behind the half-dead horse.

The men exchanged glances, reluctantly pulled their camels to a halt. The rest of the column kept on moving, flowing past us like a wide river.

'What is it that you want, westerosi?' one of the men asked, and I assumed he was the leader.

He reminded me slightly of Khal Drogo, but his skin was a more olive colour and the style of clothes he wore set him far apart from any Dothraki.

'My horse has fallen and I have no supplies.' I explained, drawing myself taller so I didn't look intimidated by them. 'I am Viserys Targaryen and I can pay you if-'

'We do not want your money.' The man interrupted, and I stared at him, wide eyed.

Did he not hear me say who I was? How dare he interrupt me.

'Your horse?' he questioned, and I nodded faintly, my pride too damaged to respond properly.

The man dismounted, and without acknowledging me, he walked over to the mare. From a distance, she looked already dead.

'This was once a fine beast.' He sighed, looking up at me. 'Water and food. These you want?'

'Yes, and safe passage to Pentos.' I added, and one of the other men laughed.

'We travel only to Qohor.' He explained. 'There we will trade camels and horses.'

The man by the fallen mare stood up, glaring at me as though I was an irresponsible child. It was hardly my fault I'd ended up in this situation.

'We take the horse, and then you travel with us.' He decided, and I raised an eyebrow.

He could take the half-dead beast if he wanted, but I set the terms, not him. I was naturally cautious, assuming there must've been a catch.

'You will take me to Qohor?' I confirmed. 'And I will have food and water?'

The man nodded slowly, putting his hand on his chest.

'You have my word, westerosi.' He promised.

'My name is-'

'You will walk now.' The man cut me off again, gesturing to the rest of the company that continued to march on with their camels, only slowing to stare at me and the dying horse.

Looking between the men, I saw only boredom and a hint of annoyance on their faces. I should've been grateful, but I was instead severely offended. I was a king, and when we got to Qohor I would make them see it. One of the men threw me a water skin, before waving a hand to get rid of me. When I was king, I would no longer follow along behind like a dog.

Grudgingly, I joined the stream of camel-traders as they trudged steadily through the sand. I didn't bother looking back – I didn't care if the mare died. As long as they kept their end of the bargain.

I started to think then, that I'd manage alright on my own, but that was my first mistake, and it definitely wasn't the last.

* * *

_**I know its crap but its been so long since I updated that I thought I'd quickly leave this here. Thanks to loyal followers, please R&R :)**_


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